


Rain

by FievreAlgide



Category: French Revolution RPF
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, M/M, Wet Clothing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2021-01-23 05:29:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21314950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FievreAlgide/pseuds/FievreAlgide
Summary: Saint-Just gets caught in a heavy rain while on his way to meet back with Robespierre and Couthon. Things get a bit awkward, especially for Couthon, who doesn't quite understand his feelings about seeing Saint-Just in drenched clothes. (Old fic repost.)
Relationships: Maximilien Robespierre/Louis Antoine de Saint-Just
Comments: 5
Kudos: 20
Collections: Fleeting and Frivolous Mundane Moments in the Life of Two Otherwise Very Serious Revolutionaries





	Rain

**Author's Note:**

> “You know, my dear friend, that I need, to soothe myself from the ills that affect me, the expressions of interest by those I think highly of; tell me that you exist, that you are well, that you don't forget me, and I will be happy.” ~ Couthon to Saint-Just, Letter dated of 20 October 1793.
> 
> First posted on LiveJournal on May 15 2009.

Saint-Just returned to his apartment to meet the concerned gazes of Robespierre and Couthon. When he had left, a few minutes before, they had been both sitting at the table, quietly working. But now, Robespierre was by the window, waiting to see when the shower would stop – and when Saint-Just would return.

“Saint-Just, you should have taken a coach.” He said as he shook his head and pointed towards the younger man’s clothes, now drenched by the rain.

“I won't pay for a coach when I was barely five minutes from here,” he replied with a grin, posing his hat on the stand. Robespierre, always the same.

“Five minutes? But you are completely soaked!”

“It’s just a little rain, Robespierre,” Saint-Just sighed and yet smirked. “I won’t melt.” He added as he walked towards his bedroom. Inattentively, he didn’t notice the door swinging back open, revealing a partial view into his bedroom. 

Or so it appeared from Couthon’s sitting place. 

At first, the older man only distractedly glanced, as Robespierre came in the way to sit beside him at the table, returning to his work. Couthon attempted to do the same, took his quill between his fingers, dipped it into the ink and was about to continue writing this letter he addressed to Collot when a troubling envy overpowered him. He lifted his eyes again towards the bedroom, sneaking a quick look at the young man. Saint-Just was trying to get out of his coat, as swiftly as possible, but the soaked fabric only clung to his body. There was something hypnotising, definitely tempting and inviting in the young man’s struggle with his own coat, how he pulled and clawed on the sleeves and finally threw the coat roughly on the wooden planks of the floor.

Couthon’s mind was already elsewhere, unable to concentrate on what Robespierre was suddenly asking him, to remember what decree he was asking him about, whether it was this morning’s decree or not. All those things seemed completely superfluous next to the sight of Saint-Just tugging at the knot of his cravat.

Robespierre finally lifted his eyes from his paper and quill. Why wasn’t Couthon answering his questions? “Couthon?” He asked, suddenly wondering why his friend’s gaze seemed blank and distant, and what exactly he was looking at.

He turned in the direction of the other man’s eyes, and saw.

He hadn’t noticed that door staying open. 

And how could Saint-Just not realise it as he was so gracefully focused on taking off his cravat from his neck?

Robespierre observed and now thought he could perfectly understand what he had seen in their colleague’s eyes. He knew what it was. He would have seen it in his own many times if he were looking at himself in a mirror when he... when Saint-Just... _Antoine_. The way his sleeves were glued to his arms, how they didn’t seem white anymore. The way his beautiful curls were now matted and flattened against his cheeks. Robespierre glanced down and frowned, suddenly feeling upset and unnerved by a feeling he didn’t really understand, a feeling he had never particularly felt. 

He couldn’t let Saint-Just ignorant of the present situation.

“Saint-Just,” he suddenly said. Couthon startled with the other man’s voice; he clearly hadn’t expected it. “I think you will need help with your boots.”

Saint-Just was about to tell Robespierre he didn’t think he would need it when he realised, as he turned towards the men, that they were _looking at him_. He was sure he had shut that door. Not that it was particularly upsetting, considering he had only taken off his coat and his cravat, and there should obviously be nothing peculiar with a man undressing. But there was still something. Maybe it was Couthon’s sudden flush on his cheeks, and how he was moving his papers around, obviously not working on them. 

Or maybe it was the way Robespierre was walking up to him with a vaguely shocked and angered look on his face.

Maximilien was already close to the young man, when he whispered, “He was looking at you.”

“So?” Saint-Just chuckled. “There's nothing here that a man hasn't already seen.”

“I know,” Robespierre replied with a smile that didn’t really seem all too sincere. One of these forced sarcastic smiles. “But you’re not any man.”

“I’m not _any man?_” Saint-Just repeated with a sceptical stare, raising his eyebrows.

“Didn’t you see the way he was watching you?”

Saint-Just didn’t answer immediately, and glanced above Robespierre’s shoulder.

“He’s still,” he indifferently noted.

Robespierre didn’t turn to see; he could feel their friend’s stare on them. He knew he was being observed. While he pondered this strange situation, he started studying Saint-Just’s figure. Water was dripping from his hair and from his clothes and formed a small puddle around him, on the floor. His breeches and his waistcoat appeared to be tightening on him, smothering his legs and his torso.

“You’ll catch cold,” Robespierre mused.

With a slight, distracted twist of the wrist, Maximilien pushed the door shut. Couthon thought he could hear whispers and more indistinct sounds. He glared down at his letter, disappointed, and yet not quite knowing why.


End file.
